


The Last Day

by Lastactiontricia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic from Vic point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 09:34:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20337952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lastactiontricia/pseuds/Lastactiontricia
Summary: Angsty one shot? from the perspective of the person who usually doesn’t survive the opening credits





	The Last Day

Picking out a shirt was almost impossible. Hovering for an hour with indecision you finally scoop up the red. Lingering in your room, you put off the day a little longer, once you walked out it really was here. You wanted to peek, but the mirror was covered, the old black lace impenetrable. You didn’t want this day to get any worse, so you leave it alone.   
The funeral seems short. Ashes to ashes. A handful of dirt later and you’re walking to your car. Debating whether to stop for milk, you roll through a stop sign, almost hitting the Impala on the opposing side of the intersection. The driver eyes you with fury, his fingers tighten on the wheel before he peels out. You rest your head on your steering wheel, closing your eyes for a moment, willing your headache to ease.  
Before you know it, you’re digging up the grave again. This day never gets any easier, but the sheer physical labor of your task burns off whatever emotions you have leftover. The adrenalines gone after the first hour, arms tingling and going numb, blisters forming and breaking- weeping blood into a twice dug grave. When you see the flashlights, it’s a shock. You stand there dumbly with your shovel, wondering what the hell you’re going to say when the siren cuts the night at exactly 3:37, same as before, and the flashlights back off. You leave the job half done, creep back to your car like it matters if you get caught.  
The next morning breaks, same black dress, laid out with care, that you ignore. The funeral should be old hat by now, but you cry anyway. That coffin being eaten up by earth still claws at you. The service not so much, just the finale, the creaking of the equipment the men use to lower him into the ground.  
Not that he’ll stay there.   
There’s the lunch after, it gets smaller every day, like people know it’s a repeat. Maybe one day it’ll just be you sitting alone eating cold cuts. With the reduced numbers you notice the newcomers working the crowd. Everyone knows everyone in this town, so they stick out worse then the red top you put on- no one says anything because you’re the poor widow- but really what was she thinking, wafts around you. Another ham sandwich, a draft beer with too much head. Before you know it, the strangers are next to you- another set of hands to shake that you don’t have patience for. You feel the scan more than you see it, your too-red top, too-dry eyes, the look of all-fuck-out boredom on your face. The shorter one, whose name you have already forgotten, quirks his mouth in an almost sneer before he locks it down.   
“Ma’am we were hoping you could help us- your husband? He’s had his obituary printed more than once,” the taller one-Sam? gently prodded.  
“I bet.” You deadpan. This joker can’t help you, just because one little detail leaked out doesn’t mean he’s going to go for your brand of crazy. “Look, just enjoy the free beer without having to rationalize this ok?” You make to escape but the shorter one’s hand closes in over the lower part of your bicep, its not hard but its firm and makes you notice the FBI badge he’s dangling from the other hand.  
“You know fraud is a serious crime.”  
“You wanna make sure he’s dead?” you snap back, and if possible, arm grabber’s eyes go flintier.   
“Sure, but how many times he been dead?” he throws back, releasing your arm.  
“Loads. We done here?”  
“Ma’am, I’m sorry about my partner, he’s a little, touchy. We just want to make sure were in the black here. You must admit, it’s a little strange having an obituary a year before the dearly departed passed away. Especially since he died under mysterious circumstances.”  
“Clerical error.” Your arms fold together stonily. “Look I have a busy day today, can we do this, tomorrow maybe? I just buried my husband.” And I’m about to have to do that shit again.   
“Sure, sure” Sam replies.   
You go to the home improvement store and browse the gardening tools. Everything seems too- torture like. Too much of a Saw rip-off. You get your usual aluminum bat and check out. You get drive thru tacos and head home. This is the worst part. The next two hours are horrible no matter how you handle them. There’s, well, not a fight, but a disappointed argument about you not buying him tacos. The man you married sits on the couch next to you eating candy. He gives you sheepish yet defiant looks- he knows this is a shitty dinner, but you just smile at him and ruffle his beard. You kiss him and hold his hand and watch terrible western movies that he loves and you hate, up until the headache starts. Then you get up, tell him you love him, that you’re getting some medicine- which he also argues with you about, and grab your bat out of the laundry room.   
He doesn’t even turn around.   
Its over. Again. At least you’ve learned to make it quick.   
You still cry, your arms still shake. The blood on the wall still makes you want to puke. But you wrap him up, carry him out to the car like he carried you over the threshold of this very house after you were married. You drive him to the cemetery, start digging. The sound of a slide being drawn back freezes you in place.   
“You mind telling me just what the fuck is going on here?” Shorter FBI guy.   
“Well, Bones, what does it look like?”  
“Looks like you’re burying a dead man. One you were just watching tv with. Trouble in Paradise? What do you think Dean?” Sam asked.  
“Well lookie you brought Booth along.”  
“Are you calling me the chick, I am not the chick.” Dean emphasized each word with a jut of his gun.   
“Why?” Sam asked.   
“He was gonna turn. Happens every night.” You drop the shovel, shoulders lowering with it. “I can’t do that again, I can’t watch him become…that.”  
“So, which of the 32 flavors of weird is he?” Dean asks, putting his gun away. Sam’s not so quick to dismiss you, his arms are still tensely holding the gun to your head.   
“I don’t know. I wanted him back, went to a witch for fucks sake.” You ran your already muddy hands through your hair messily, slumping over in the quarter dug grave. “Well, I got him. For about two hours a night. Always thinks he’s coming home from work, larger than life and he’s so happy to see me-like he knows.” Your voice breaks a little, “I dread the sound of his key in the lock.” Tears find their way out of your eyes but they’re soundless. Sam’s gun finally goes down.   
“Two fucking hours and then he gets a headache and turns pretty fast after that. Bleeds from his eyes and attacks me with everything he has. He might reset every time like Groundhog Day, but the damage he does stays.”  
“So you brain your dude?” Dean looks disgusted.  
“The fuck am I supposed to do? Its better if its quick.”  
“How long have you been doing this?” Sam runs a hand through his hair exhaling the words out in a sigh.   
“Let’s just say 2018 wasn’t a good year.”  
They find the hex bags. And boy -there are a shit ton.   
You burn them all before the sun comes up and starts this day over again. The unbearable weight of this circle of killing the love of your life may be over. But it also means you’re never going to see him again. Dean holds your hand and it surprises you, the fire lends his face more kindness than you’d have guessed. And too much empathy. The kind that breaks you open, makes dark things spill out.   
They help you bury him, well his ashes, for the last time. You really break down then. No more small snatches of life to cling to.   
“What now?” Sam asks you, the first new day starting for you in a long time.   
“Now I help you hunt down the fucker that put me in Happy Death Day.”


End file.
